a white lane into the distance.
A bird of prey plummets towards the ground,
a mouse scurries into its hole with a shriek.
When dusk begins to fall, I head back home,
picking more firewood as I go along.
Smoke curls from every house in the village,
my shoes are soggy, my coat threadbare.
As I enter this old hut,
silence and the clock on the wall stand still.
A single teacup on the table,
a kettle on the stove.
How could I be not content!
The sky is full of stars,
the moon returns each night.